a dark one,
a long one.
-
a figure
at the end of the tunnel
bathed in light
from the back
so as not to see their face.
-
i run
to the figure
the strong point,
the tall point.
-
my arms
that are thrown about them
find nothing
but gaping black
my hands are groping
the overwhelming blackness
the figure
is gone.
-
my heart
it breaks slowly,
it breaks sharply.
i stand back
my face a mask
of dismay and longing
for that figure
is what i'm missing
my missing piece.
-
so i run to the figure
every time,
any time.
-
and every time
the figure vanishes
like a feather on a windy day.
and i am left
with the same ache.
-
then, one day
some day
a future day
-
i realise i am lost
and need someone to find me.
but i need to have a part
in finding that someone.
i can not just wander through
the tunnel
that is a great cylinder
in life
without putting in an effort
to be found.
-
and so i try
try hard,
try without rest.
-
every day
i am left with the same ache
the same hole
the same longing
until one day
they come
without me knowing
with me looking
but not seeing
-
yet suddenly
i look,
i see.
-
and back into my tunnel
i run towards them
stretch out my arms
fall into theirs
hold them close
as they hold me back.
-
and i turn my head
against their chest.
and i can feel their heartbeat
-
beating steadily,
beating life.